


Winchesters and Whiskey

by MelodyDover



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-28
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-02-22 22:36:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2524178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelodyDover/pseuds/MelodyDover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus—"<br/>Astaroth screams, drowning out my voice for a moment as he thrashes around, so I pause, waiting for him to quiet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Harvelle Women

**Author's Note:**

> *UPDATED 1/11/15*  
> A big thanks to shennanigoats for all the beta work (again) and for putting up with my use of first-person.

**Chapter 1: Harvelle Women**

I run through the abandoned building like a woman fleeing Hell. In a way, I guess I am. My legs are growing weak and tired, but I know I cannot stop just yet. Panting, I take the flight of stairs two at a time, too preoccupied with staying alive to notice how rickety they are. One step shudders under my weight, splitting apart with a horrendous crack, but I am already on the second floor. I throw open the double doors in front of me and race down the hallway, with the demon hot on my heels.

I hit the wall at the end of the hallway, unable to stop in time, rolling to the side to lessen the impact. Behind me, I hear the demon growl and I turn to survey him, gasping for breath. His vessel is different from the last time we met; this one is nearly a foot taller than me, heavily muscled with dark hair. His eyes are light blue for a moment before he blinks and they turn a depthless black. 

“Hello, Astaroth,” I force a smile. My hands are shaking with fury but I point at the ceiling. Dark paint on dark wood, the Devil’s Trap is barely visible, even if he had chanced to look up. He hisses.

“You think a Devil’s Trap will stop me, you little whore?” The demon’s voice is high and whiney, vastly out of place in the mouth of his vessel. Instead of answering him, I pull out a dented silver flask and unscrew the cap. I thrust the flask at him, drenching the demon in holy water. He shrieks in agony, writhing, and falls to his knees, spitting curses at me. His vessel’s skin hisses and steams as he continues to shriek.

“And no, I don’t” I murmur in response, “Goodbye Astaroth.” Before he can recover, I begin to speak.

“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus—“

Astaroth screams, drowning out my voice for a moment as he thrashes around, so I pause, waiting for him to quiet.

“Omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis gongregatio et secta diabolica…” His cries grow more earnest as I repeat the words from memory. When I was younger, the exorcism spell had been a novelty that I had stumbled across during research into the demon who murdered my parents. Then, it had seemed like an amusement to throw out when I wanted to shock someone who wasn’t in the life. Now, it had become a necessity. Astaroth’s screams intensify as I finish the exorcism with a voice that shakes.

“Ut Ecclesiam tuam secura tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos.”  With a final horrible shriek, Astaroth is forcibly expelled from his vessel. A cloud of black smoke rushes out of him and disappears out of the broken window. The vessel collapses to the floor; I run to check his pulse and can’t find one. I check for trauma and realize his neck is broken when I try to move him. Astaroth must have kept it looking normal while inside him, but the break is obvious now.

Before I can do anything else, I hear the pounding of boots as people run up the stairs behind me. Cops—I judge—demons usually don’t bring friends. My mind raced; if I am going to be caught with a dead body, I need to make it convincing. I let out a bloodcurdling scream and back away from the dead vessel. By the time the two cops make it to the top of the stairs, I am huddled in a corner of the hall, shaking uncontrollably.

The pair both have guns drawn, and they scan the room quickly. I study them from between my fingers, my hands over my face as I force tears to my eyes. They are both tall, but one is a few inches taller. The taller one has hazel eyes, long brown hair, and muscles that strain at the fabric of his red flannel shirt. His partner has almost the same eyes, but his hair is much shorter and lighter. He wears a brown leather jacket that has seen a lot of use. When they judge it to be safe, they both tuck their pistols into the waistbands of their jeans. The taller one checks the vessel, while the other comes to talk to me.

I shy away from him when he reaches out and he quickly stops himself. “Easy,” he tells me in a low voice, “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

I look up at him slowly, letting a few tears roll down my cheeks. “Is . . . is he really dead?” The man looks back at his partner, who nods, and I cover my mouth in horror. He puts a comforting hand on my shoulder and I flinch slightly. Another part of my mind—the part not occupied with this charade—notices how handsome he is: square, chiseled jawline, a slight cleft in his chin, and eyes that are a pale green on closer inspection. He also smells fantastic, a mix of musk and woods, leather and iron; but that is beside the point I remind myself. Back to the task at hand.

“What is your name?” He prompts me gently.

“Kate,” I lie as I watch the taller one surreptitiously take an EMF reading on a handheld monitor. These men are not cops, I realize; they are likely hunters, too. I wonder what their cover is . . . “Are you cops?” I ask softly, letting my voice quaver slightly.

They both pull out FBI credentials simultaneously. “Agents Smith and Smith,” the shorter one says, “Uh, no relation.” He gives me a quick smile and I quickly bite my lip to keep from laughing. Smith and Smith? Honestly, is that the best they can do? Before I can say anything, the taller one comes over and begins asking me questions.

“What happened here? We were just driving by when we heard the disturbance.”

Man, these guys were way too into their covers. “I . . . I don’t know. I was on the first floor when I heard screaming. I couldn’t tell where it was coming from—it just echoed—and I came running upstairs to, to get away from it.” I pause for effect, drawing a shuddering breath in. “That’s when . . . that’s w-when I found him.” I cover my mouth with a shaking hand and turn away from the body.

“Why were you here in the first place?”

I let a blush creep into my cheeks and keep my gaze on the floor, “Don’t have anywhere else to go.” My voice was barely audible.  Their faces soften, and I can tell they were totally eating this up. It is almost too easy, but I can’t complain. “Can I go now?”

The hunters trade a glance before looking back at me. “Why don’t you let us give you a ride into town? There’s a shelter there; you can get a bed and some hot food tonight.”

I shake my head fervently, backing away, “No way. No shelters.” I continue shaking my head, eyes widened with what I hope looks like fright.

“Okay, okay, easy,” the taller one soothes, “Is there somewhere else we can take you? A friend’s maybe? Or family? We can’t just let you stay here.” He sounds almost apologetic. I guess it won’t hurt to let them give me a ride home, although I don’t really want these hunters knowing where I’m staying. They seem to be buying the whole homeless-helpless-bystander thing though, so I nod.

“Yeah there’s, there’s a friend that might let me stay with him,” I tell them slowly.

⃝⃝⃝

Twenty minutes later the hunters pull up in front of Jake’s house in their gorgeous ’67 black Chevy Impala. I’m trying hard not to drool over the car and the hunters are certainly easy on the eyes, but Jake will be waiting for me inside, wanting to know how the hunt went. I slide off of the leather bench seat and climb out. “Thank you,” I murmur hesitantly, still playing the part of the scared homeless girl who has never seen a dead body before.

The tall hunter leans out of the passenger side window and hands me a business card; “Here’s my cell. Call us if you need anything, okay?” I nod, taking the card with a shaky hand, and successfully manage to repress the voice in my head that asks: _how the fuck is a homeless girl supposed to CALL you if she gets in a jam?_ Hunters . . .

I hear the Impala growl as they drive away, but I force myself to stay in character until Jake opens the door and lets me inside. He shuts the door and pulls me into a fierce hug, burying his face in my long, black hair. I laugh and turn my face up for a kiss before letting go of him.

“I was only gone for a few hours,” I remind him.

“You know I always worry when you go on solo hunts, Selene,” he argues. “Who was that in the Chevy?”

“More hunters,” I roll my eyes, “Don’t worry, they totally bought my story. _Is . . . is he really dead?_ ” I mimic my own voice and we both laugh, but somber quickly.

“The vessel didn’t make it?”

“No, Astaroth snapped his neck at some point. When he smoked out, the vessel was done.”

Jake sighs, running a hand through his thick brown hair. There is sorrow in his chocolate-colored eyes. “I hate when that happens. At least Astaroth is out of the picture for a while. Maybe by then we’ll have a way to kill the son-of-a-bitch.”

⃝⃝⃝

Three days later, the hunters are all but forgotten and we fall back into our normal routine. Wake-up and go for a run before breakfast, eat our first meal, and spend the rest of the morning training; we break at noon for lunch and then spend the afternoon doing research and chasing down leads, anything to give us an advantage. We usually give ourselves a few hours to relax in the evening before waking up and doing it all over again the next day. The repetition is somehow comforting rather than boring; it makes us feel like we’re making some sort of progress.

I wake up in the middle of the night, sweating and heart hammering from a dream I’ve already forgotten. It takes me a few moments to realize that isn’t what has woken me. Barely moving, I slide my hand under my pillow as quietly as I can, pulling out the long hunting knife I keep under it. As I ease it out of the leather sheath, I listen carefully. The only sound is the soft whistle of wind moving past the open window. Strange, I don’t remember leaving it open. Jake must have opened it before he went to bed, he always complains it’s too hot in here.

Jake! I sit bolt upright, realizing what is missing. The soft, regular rhythm of his breathing, the sound I fall asleep to every night is missing. Jake isn’t breathing. I roll over and grip his shoulder with my free hand and shake him violently. It’s probably not the ideal thing to do to someone, but I’m panicking. I gulp down a breath of air, trying to calm myself. “Jake!” I hiss, “Jake, wake up!” I shake him again.

His eyes snap open suddenly, startling me, and he takes a ragged breath. “Oh thank God—“ I begin, but cut off abruptly as a car’s headlights swing across the window, throwing a beam of light across his face. Jake’s brown eyes don’t stare back at me; instead all I see are two depthless black pits. As I open my mouth to scream, an unseen force throws me across the room.

Lights pop behind my eyes as my head cracks against the bedroom wall. Dizzy and dazed, I press my left hand against the back of my head and feel the hot stickiness of blood in my hair. The impact knocked the breath out of me, but I draw a breath and scream as loudly as I can. Not that it will help. I’m pinned to the wall even though Jake—no, not Jake—the demon, is across the room from me.

“Exorcizamus te—” I begin, but then my mouth snaps shut against my will and all I can do is whimper in the back of my throat. In the next moment, the demon reaches me. Jake’s hand picks me up by my throat and slams me against the wall again. I cry out, suddenly able to speak. “Jake,” my voice is a hoarse rasp, “I know you’re in there.” I gasp the words out before the demon cracks my head back against the wall again, hand tightening around my throat. My vision is going black and red, slowly slipping into unconsciousness.

“Your boyfriend is gone, dear,” the demon hisses, and a moment later Jake’s neck snaps with a sickening crack I will remember for the rest of my life, which may only be a few moments. If I could breathe, I would scream, but it just comes out as a choked sob. “Astaroth sends his regards from Hell,” the demon taunts me, grinning from Jake’s beautiful face.

There is nothing to lose now, because I’ve already lost. I use the last of my quickly diminishing strength to raise the blade that I have miraculously managed to hold on to. The demon’s eyes are on my face, watching me slip away, and he never sees me raise the knife. It takes every last bit of my will to plunge the blade between Jake’s ribs, straight into his still beating heart. The demon screams and smokes out, Jake’s lifeless body falls to the floor, and I collapse beside him—hovering on the edge of unconsciousness.

I don’t know how long I lay there before I heard the sound of my door being kicked open and the pounding of boots on my hardwood floor. I throw myself over Jake’s body, though I don’t know what for. There is nothing I can do for him, or for me. Strong hands pull me off of him and I fight back as ferociously as I can, kicking and swinging wildly.

“Easy,” the rough voice is vaguely familiar, “I’m not gonna hurt you.” I look up into the bright green eyes of one of the hunters I met the other day. His face is oddly blurry; it takes me several moments to realize the reason. I am crying soundlessly, hot tears streaming down my cheeks. I look down and realize I am also covered in Jake’s blood. My hands and singlet are dripping scarlet liquid, still horribly warm. From the way the hunters stare at me, I must have blood on my face as well. For some reason their mildly horrified faces scare me more than anything else.

“He was possessed,” I whisper brokenly, “I couldn’t . . .” My voice breaks, “I couldn’t stop him.”

Understanding blooms on their faces. “You’re a hunter,” the taller one murmurs. “Don’t worry, so are we.”

I nod limply, “I know.” And then suddenly, inexplicably, laughter bubbles up in my throat. I giggle and begin to laugh, horribly, fanatically, and they must think I am completely mad. Hysterical, I can’t stop laughing, but I’m still crying too, and a horrible, burning pain in my side makes me realize I have broken ribs. I double over in pain, breathless and gasping, still laughing.

The hunter’s trade a glance. “She’s in shock,” the shorter one mutters, “We need to get out of here before the cops come.”

The other hunter nods, “I’ll stay and clean up, go ahead and take her. I’ll meet you around the block.” His partner scoops me up into his arms, but I try to pull away from him. I get an arm free and try to pry his hands off of me.

“Goddamn she’s strong,” he curses, “Stop fighting me, I’m trying to help.”

“I’m not leaving Jake!” I nearly succeed in pulling away from him before he tucks me into his chest and traps my arms once more.

“He’s dead, Kate. There’s nothing you can do.” He turns away from his partner and steps through the doorway.

“That’s not my name—“ I try to say, but the head trauma and exhaustion finally catches up with me and I black out before I can finish.

⃝⃝⃝

I wake up in the back seat of a car, a worn leather jacket draped over me. I sit up groggily and moan as my head spins sickeningly. I put a hand on the back of my head and find it crusty with dried blood. I’m in the hunters’ Impala, I realize. Both of them turn when they hear me stirring. Their green eyes mirror each other’s worry perfectly.

“Thank God,” the tall one looks immensely relieved. “We were worried you might not wake up.”

I run a hand over my face and find it crusty with blood, too. I can’t remember if it is mine or not.

“How long was I out?” My words come out slurred. My throat burns and my mouth is dry. One of them hands me a bottle of water, which I take graciously, although my hands are so stiff and uncooperative that I nearly drop it.

“A few hours,” is the response. I glance out the window; it is just past dawn. “I’m Sam by the way,” the tall one tells me. He jerks his head at the driver, “And that’s Dean.”

“Winchesters?” I’ve heard of them of course. It makes sense, even in my current mental state.

“You know who we are?”

I nod and immediately regret it. I grab the seat in front of me to steady myself as my head reels. I make myself close my eyes and take a few breaths before trying to speak.

“Have you ever met a hunter who didn’t?” I wonder.

They trade a look and Sam nods, “Loads actually.”

“Weird,” I mutter, but I’m too drained of emotion at this point to really care.

“You never gave us your name,” Sam reminds me, “Well, not your real name.”

“Lena,” I tell him; there is no reason not to. Then I correct myself, “Selene really.”

Sam nods, “Selene then. Are you alright?”

I don’t answer him, just stare at him coldly until he remembers the fact that they just pulled me off of the lifeless body of my boyfriend a few hours ago. His cheeks turn crimson. “Right, er—what I mean is, do you feel okay? Um, physically?”

“Well I have a hellacious headache which probably has something to do with the fact that my scalp is split open, and I’m pretty sure I broke a couple ribs. Other than that, I feel just peachy.” I mean for the words to come out snappy but they just sound kind of sad and defeated to my ears.

Pity blooms in Sam’s green eyes and I hate him for it. “Well, we’ll be somewhere safe in a few more hours, alright? Why don’t you try to get some sleep?”

I glower at him, but my heart isn’t really in it. I lay back down on the bench seat slowly, pulling the jacket up over my shoulders. I don’t think I will be able to sleep with everything I am trying desperately not to think about swirling around in my head. Eventually though, my body takes over and I slowly drop off into oblivion.

⃝⃝⃝

I wake up and am still moving, but not in the car. It takes me a moment to figure out that I’m being carried again. I look up into Dean’s face and blink a few times before telling him sharply, “I _can_ walk for myself, you know.” My voice sounds much more like usual this time and Dean glances down at me in surprise.

“Suit yourself,” he tells me, sounding slightly amused. He sets me down and immediately reaches out to catch me as my legs buckle. He doesn’t say a word, just steadies me until I can stand on my own. I refuse to meet his eyes, but I still catch the flicker of a smile on the edge of his lips. Wordlessly, I follow him and Sam into what looks like some sort of military bunker, built into the side of a hill.

I don’t know what I am expecting, but this sure isn’t it. I stop dead, staring at the multi-story library that we have just walked into. I look from the bookshelves to the Winchesters and back again, hopelessly confused. “What the hell is this place?”

“It’s an old Men of Letters bunker,” Dean explains, as if that should mean something.

“Sorry what? Is that some kind of band or something?” I look between them for an answer.

“The Men of Letters are—well were—an order of hunters. Well, more like the tame, librarian equivalent of hunters and they got very fussy if you referred to them as hunters,” Sam explains.

“We’re legacies,” Dean adds.

I raise my brows at him, “Legacies? Like, in a fraternity?”

Dean runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head, “Nevermind. The important thing is that it’s home, or as close as we’ll ever get. Come on.” He leads us down the staircase onto the main floor of the bunker. The Winchesters throw their gear bags down onto one of several tables in the library, and begin going through them. Sam hands me a canvas backpack that looks familiar. It takes me a moment to realize that it’s mine.

“I grabbed what I could,” he looks sheepish, “I know it isn’t much . . .” He trails off and I think he is expecting a rebuke or something similar from me. Instead I just stare at him for a long moment.

“Thank you,” I tell him softly and he nods.

“Come on, I’ll show you where the showers are.”

⃝⃝⃝

Half an hour later, I am blissfully clean and dressed in fresh clothes. Sam managed to find all the necessities: two bras, a few days’ worth of panties, a pair of jeans, and a couple random shirts. Normally, I might be a little weirded-out by the fact that some guy I barely know went through my underwear drawer, but I just don’t have it in me anymore. I pull Dean’s leather jacket on over my t-shirt; the bunker is fairly chilly, something about it being underground. Then I sink onto the bed in the room they have given me. Sam sits down beside me and I tense up.

He frowns at my reaction, “Is it okay if I take a look at your scalp? I think you need stitches.”

I hesitate for a moment before agreeing. Sam combs his fingers through my wet hair, pulling it aside to take a look at the wound. His fingers brush the open skin and I hiss in pain.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, “I’ll be right back.”

When he reappears, it is with a first-aid kit in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other. He hands me the whiskey first and I take several long draughts while he opens up the kit.

“Ready?” He asks. _Can you ever really be ready to have someone pour alcohol on an open wound and then stick a needle and thread through your skin?_ I don’t bother with that though. This unfortunately isn’t the first time I’ve needed to have my head stitched up and it’s unlikely to be the last.

“Yep,” I say through gritted teeth. He swipes a cotton ball soaked in antiseptic over the gash and I shut my eyes against the stinging burn. I take another few swigs of whiskey before he digs the needle in. The pain is much less than I am expecting; there must have been some sort of anesthetic in the antiseptic too, because there is no way the whiskey helped this much already. I sit as still as I can while Sam sets neat, precise stitches down the length of the cut. He claps me on the shoulder when he’s finished and I yelp in pain.

“Shit, sorry! What hurts?” His green eyes are wide.

“Ribs,” I gasp, pressing a hand to my right side.

“Right,” Sam looks abashed and pulls a wide ace wrap out of the kit. “Can you do it yourself or do you want me to?”

“I can do it.” My voice sounds much more sure than I actually am. Sam nods and leaves the room, shutting the door behind him. I shrug out of the jacket and painfully pull my shirt up. I start wrapping just below my bra and circle the wrap tightly around my torso over and over until it is the way I want it. When I finish, I anchor it with the clips it comes with, and smooth a piece of bandage tape over the top, just in case. The wrap makes breathing difficult, but it also makes it slightly less painful, so it’s worth it.

I find Sam waiting outside of the door for me and hand him the first-aid kit. He looks me over carefully and raises his brows. “Do you want a flannel shirt or something? It might be more comfortable.” Now that he mentions it, the jacket is a little too heavy to be wearing inside.

“Um, sure. Yeah, that would be nice.” My tongue stumbles over the words. Sam leads me down the hallway to his room and gives me the pick of his rather impressive array of over-shirts. I choose a blue and black plaid one nearly the exact color of my eyes and switch it out for the jacket. I have to roll up the cuffs just to keep my hands free. Sam takes the leather jacket from me.

“There, better?” I nod and he continues. “This jacket was Dad’s, Dean hardly ever takes it off. Come on, let’s see if he actually made food or just taunted us with it.”

⃝⃝⃝

I’m sitting on the couch later, between two of the most famous hunters in history, watching Die Hard for Christ’s sake, when suddenly it’s just all too much to handle.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” The question comes out really harsh and I wince. “Sorry. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m really grateful for you guys saving my ass back there. But why are you still helping me out?” Both hunters stare at me like they honestly hadn’t even thought about it. Like they would just do this for anyone they happened to find. It takes me a long time to realize that that is exactly how they see it.

“What did you expect? For us to pull you out of there kicking and screaming and then just leave you on the side of the road?” Dean’s voice is harsh but not unkind.

I shake my head, not knowing what to say to that. I am quiet for a moment before telling them, “Jo always said you guys weren’t like most other hunters.”

Dean chokes on the sip of beer he’s just taken, coughing violently and Sam’s head snaps around like he’s just been slapped. They stare at me with a mix of emotions I can’t even begin to guess.

“You knew Jo?” Dean finally chokes out. “Jo Harvelle?”

“Well yeah,” I’m confused about why this is so surprising. “Ellen married my dad’s brother, so Jo was my cousin.” Both Winchesters have gone pale as ghosts. And then I realize something, something I would have pieced together a lot sooner if my mind had been fully functioning. “Oh my God. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize . . . you were there when it happened, weren’t you?”

Slowly, Sam nods and reaches over to put on a hand on his brother’s shoulder. Dean’s eyes are a million miles away, reliving images I never want to see. We all fall into an awkward silence that Dean eventually breaks. “It’s my fault she died,” he keeps his eyes on his boots as he speaks. “She never should have been there—Ellen either—I shouldn’t have let them come. We knew how dangerous it was going to be and I let them come anyway.” His rough voice breaks, “They died so that Sammy and I could make it out alive. God, I never should have her come.”

I laugh, startling everyone including myself, “Oh my god, I’m sorry, it’s not funny. It’s just that, well, Harvelle women are as stubborn as mules. Ain’t never been a man that can change our minds once we decide to do something.” It takes a while, but Dean eventually smiles at that.

“We?” Sam asks after a moment.

“Everyone’s got to have a last name, right?” I almost smile.

“So you grew up in the life?” Dean asks, curious.

I shake my head, “Not really. My dad was a hunter when I was born but Mom wasn’t. He would go off on hunts when I was a toddler, be gone for weeks at a time. And then when my uncle Bill—Jo’s dad—died on that hunting trip, my mom told my dad that he could keep hunting or keep being a father, but she wasn’t raising a kid in a life like that. He chose us, got out of the life; we moved down to Dallas and had a farm. For years, we were happy, I mean really happy. I grew up just like any normal kid, albeit with a lot cooler stories to tell. But you know how it goes, you can’t ever really get out.” I pause and Dean looks at me expectantly, so I shrug and continue, they might as well hear it now.

“When I was fourteen, I was coming back from a friend’s house late one night. I remember her mom dropped me off at the end of our road because she had some tiny little foreign car and our driveway was in pretty bad shape. I didn’t mind walking. Anyway, so I walked back by myself and by the time I got within view of the house I could just tell something was wrong. We had horses and cows, you know, it was a typical little farm. They’d always come up to the fence line when they saw me, but not that night. I couldn’t see any of them and it was so quiet, too quiet. I started running and as soon as I got up to the door I could smell the sulfur. It was everywhere, so thick I thought I might choke.”

“I screamed for my parents and didn’t get any answer. All the lights were off in the house and wouldn’t come on. I went running into the living room and I tripped,” I stop and choke back a sob, willing myself not to cry in front of them. “I tripped over my mom.” I stop again and put a hand up to my face, trying to keep myself in control. “I had a flashlight with me, I guess since I knew I’d be walking home in the dark, I don’t know. When I turned it on I wished I hadn’t”

“There wasn’t any blood. There wasn’t anything; they just looked like they were sleeping. I think that made it worse in a way. Blood I can handle, blood means a fight. But there was nothing, no fight, not even any signs of a struggle, just my parents dead on our living room floor.”

“I didn’t know what would happen if the police showed up, so I just ran upstairs and packed a bag as quickly as I could. I took their wallets and the keys to my dad’s pickup and got the hell out of there. I drove all night, just straight north, towards Nebraska. I knew roughly where I was going but it took a few days to get there. I don’t know how I didn’t get caught. I mean, I sort of looked old enough to be driving, but if I had gotten stopped for anything that would have been it.”

“I didn’t have a cell phone or anything. I mean, I had one but I didn’t bring it. Didn’t think about it until it was too late. So I just drove all the way to the Roadhouse and pulled up in their parking lot. I walked in the front door of the place, fourteen years old and alone, in the middle of the day. Man, everything just stopped, everyone looked at me. And Jo was behind the bar then.” I half-smile, remembering, “She wasn’t nearly old enough, but no one was going to mess with Ellen’s daughter. Anyway, when she saw my face she yelled for Ellen to come back in. I thought she was going to have a heart attack when she saw me.”

“It took me a while to finally tell them what happened, but when I did it all just came pouring out. And then Ellen did what she always did, she hugged me and told me it was going to be okay, and damned if anyone said different. They took me in and that was that.”

The Winchesters were quiet for a long moment. I was briefly afraid that I had said too much; they were practically strangers. But there was something about these boys that just made me feel like I had known them for forever. Sam confirmed it when he reached over and put a comforting hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry about your parents, Selene.”

“I’m sorry about yours.” I shrug, “I’ve had a long time to come to terms with it.” We lapse back into silence again. The movie is still playing in the background, Hans Gruber still holding McClane’s wife hostage as McClane shoots and kills his last man. The volume got muted at some point but none of us moves to turn it back on. Finally, Dean’s curiosity gets the better of him.

“What was it like, living with Jo and Ellen?” His voice cracks when he says her name.

The corner of my mouth twitches, almost smiling at the memories. “It was great. They taught me everything I know about hunting. And they were family too; they didn’t just make me a better hunter, they made me a better person. Ellen made sure that even with all the training and the hunts and late-night research, that I was still living a somewhat normal life. I went to school at Lexington High and worked at the Roadhouse on the nights and weekends. Eventually Jo started going off on hunts by herself and as much as Ellen hated it, she couldn’t stop her. I worked hard so I could graduate at 17, and as soon as I was done I called her up and we hunted together for a while. That was just before the fire.”

“After the Roadhouse burned, Ellen decided it wasn’t worth trying to stop us anymore. She joined us on the road. It was really fun, hunting with them, but you know how family gets. Eventually, I decided I wanted to go off by myself for a while. I just needed to figure out what I was doing with my life.” I pause, remembering that horrible night. “Then one day—out of the blue—I got a call from Bobby. All he said was my name, nothing more, just ‘Lena’ and I knew. He told me they’d been out with some other hunters, chasing down the goddamn devil. He said a demon showed up with Hellhounds and that, that they went down fighting.” I stop, fully unable to go on. It takes me several long minutes before I can say, “Well, you know the rest. After that, I went off on my own and that was that.”

Dean passes me a bottle of what I assume is more whiskey and I take it wordlessly, not trusting myself to speak. “They were good hunters,” He murmurs as I take a sip. “Good people. Bobby, too.” Sam and I both nod in agreement. I take a long swallow of the whiskey before handing it back and standing up.

“I’m gonna try to get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning,” I tell them, turning away before they can say anything back. I walk into my dark room and close the door before falling onto the bed, wincing. I’m too tired to even undress so I just kick my boots off and pull a sheet over myself. I briefly worry that all the horrible thoughts and images in my mind will keep me from falling asleep again. Moments later, I dose off anyway, exhaustion winning out.


	2. Chasing Ghosts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *UPDATED 1/11/15
> 
> Again, thanks to shennanigoats for all the edits, and especially for finding the continuity errors and consistent misspellings of "sawed-off." You're the best!

Over the next few weeks I get to know the Winchesters and they show me all around the bunker. I could spend decades reading all of the material they have at their disposal here. They give me a tour of all of the other rooms of the bunker: kitchens, a sick bay, dungeon, computer room, countless storage rooms, and a massive garage. The dungeon kind of creeps me out, with its racks of what look suspiciously like torture instruments on the walls and a single chair wrapped in chains at the center. At the same time, it’s weirdly awesome, kind of like the rest of the place.

I later learn there is also a shooting range in the basement, opposite the dungeon. Dean takes me down there one night and hands me a gorgeous Taurus Model 92 9mm, with an engraved barrel and mother-of-pearl grips. I wonder whose it was, because Dean doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to buy a pretty gun. I take it and immediately check the clip; there are 17 rounds in the mag. I frown at Dean.

“Let me see what you can do,” he grins.

I shrug and step over to the targets; taking the pair of earmuffs he gives me. The Taurus is basically just a slight improvement to the Beretta Model 92 I usually shoot, so it should work fine for me. I flick the safety off and my mind goes wonderfully blank for a few seconds as I cock, sight, and fire repeatedly. The result is a nearly perfect 5-point starburst pattern clustered in the center of the target. I press the safety back on and set the pistol down. Then I look up at Dean and raise my brows.

“Not bad,” he tells me, pulling off his ear protection. I do the same and roll my eyes at him.

“Don’t start with me.”

He just laughs and walks back to the stairs, “Come on, I don’t know about you but I could use a beer.”

Upstairs, Sam is squinting at something at something on his laptop, an untouched piece of delivery pizza by his right elbow. He looks up expectantly when we walk in, “How are your ribs, Lena?”

“Pretty good,” I lie, “How come?”

“I think I found us a case if you’re up for it.”

“A case?” Dean comes up to peer over his brother’s shoulder. “Electrical disturbances? Stuff moving without being touched? Dude, a ghost? Really?”

“I know,” Sam looks vaguely annoyed, “But a case is a case and I’m tired of being cooped up in here. So, are you coming or not?”

“I’m down,” I lean over his other shoulder to see the screen. “Where’s the case?”

“Belzoni, Mississippi.” Sam points it out on the state map he has pulled up.

“Great, never heard of it.” Dean laughs, “When do we leave?”

Sam glances at the clock in the corner of the screen; it’s nearly 2:00 AM. He yawns and shuts the laptop down. “In the morning, I’d like to actually get some sleep first.”

⃝⃝⃝

Dean shakes me roughly awake at some ungodly hour the next morning. I glare up at him before I’m even fully awake and roll over to look at the clock, which reads 6:45. “Why?” It’s more of a groan than the yell I intended.

“Belzoni’s a 12-hour drive and I want to get on the road.” He offers me a hand, which I take and let him pull me up. My ribs scream a protest and I can’t help the gasp of pain that escapes me. His green eyes narrow and he looks at me in concern. “You okay, Lena?”

“Yep, just slept on my shoulder wrong, I think.” I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and stand up before I remember all I’m wearing is a tank top and underwear. I blush furiously and point at the door. Dean grins widely as he turns away, leaving me to change in peace.

Dressed in a black and red AC/DC shirt, dark jeans tucked into combat boots, and a black leather motorcycle jacket, I leave the room a minute later. My gear bag is slung over one shoulder, stuffed with weapons and a few days’ worth of clothes. In my other hand is my weapons belt: sidearm holster on one side and my leather-sheathed hunting knife on the other. I check my pockets as I walk out; making sure my silver flask of holy water is there, along with a small bag of rock salt.

Dean looks up and raises his brows, “That was fast.”

“Bite me.”

He winks as Sam hands me a thermos of coffee, looking as tired as I feel. Yawning, I take a sip and follow the Winchesters up the stairs to the garage. As we walk over to the Impala, Sam pushes past me, yelling, “Shotgun!” I climb into the back seat and stretch out on the old leather.

“Your loss,” I taunt, “I can lay down and go back to sleep now.”

⃝⃝⃝

“TAKE MY HAND; WE’RE OFF TO NEVER NEVERLAND!!” The song blares out of the radio.

I sit up with a yelp as a screaming guitar solo follows and smack my head on the door handle. In the front seat, Sam looks just as dazed as me—albeit with less head trauma. We both glare at Dean who grins evilly and reaches over to turn down the Metallica.

“’Bout time you guys woke up, we just passed the 10-mile marker,” he announces.

“Dude I’m going to pay you back for that. Just wait,” Sam vows.

“Sam, you aren’t supposed to warn him in advance,” I remind him, “We’re here already?”

“ _Already?_ Easy for you to say Ms. I-Slept-For-Ten-Hours.”

“Maybe I would have been more awake if I actually got any sleep last night,” I retort as a faded blue sign reading ‘Welcome to Belzoni’ flashes by. Dean slows down as we pull into the tiny Mississippi Delta town. It’s got a small town Southern charm, family farms and little cinderblock houses line the two-lane street. A muddy river runs along the side of the road and I can see an old white water tower in the distance. There’s not a whole lot here, so we pull into the parking lot of a Filler Up gas station to get our bearings.

An old black man with hair gone white is sitting in a lawn chair in front of the convenience store when we pulled up. Dean parks the Impala and gets out to pump gas, so Sam goes inside to pay. When he comes back out, he stops to talk to the man in the chair. After a few moments of gesturing and pointing down the road, he comes jogging back over to us.

“We’re going to Redeem Church of God in Christ on the corner of 1st and Cain Ave. You can’t miss it apparently,” he announces.

“Sam,” Dean begins, “We’re hunting a ghost . . .”

“I know how crazy it sounds, but he said that’s where we need to go.”

Dean shrugs as he puts the pump back and twists the gas cap closed. The sun is starting to sink behind the live oaks that dot the flat landscape. “Well, let’s go talk to them then.”

We pull into the parking lot of Redeem Church and Dean cuts the engine. It’s a modest, single story building built with a mix of light and dark bricks. It consists of two peaked brown roofs at each end and a long hallway connecting the two sides. I glance down at my outfit and zip up my jacket to cover my shirt; I don’t really fit the part of a churchgoer. We walk up to the front of the church and knock on the white double doors. After a few moments, a tall black man in grey dress slacks and a navy blue button-down opens the door. He smiles at us.

“Welcome to Redeem, I am Pastor John” He tells us in a rich baritone voice, “What can I do for you?”

“Well,” Sam begins, “We’re new to town, Father. We aren’t really sure what we are looking for in a church, but we were hoping we might get to learn a little more about your congregation.” He reaches out to shake the pastor’s outstretched hand. “I’m James Hetfield. And this is my brother, Cliff and his fiancé, Kate Burton.”

The pastor shakes hands with each of us in turn, as I make a mental note to kill Sam later. When he lets go of my hand, he smiles, “Well, let me take you on a tour of our church.” He begins talking about the history of the church and the town of Belzoni. I tune him out, knowing Sam and Dean are paying attention. Instead, I surreptitiously pull out a homemade EMF reader and scan the building as we walk. Nothing, but that’s what I expected.

Halfway through the tour I excuse myself to go outside. I walk the perimeter of the church with the EMF meter, but the only reading I get is when I near the power lines that run along the side of the road. Frustrated but unsurprised, I stuff the meter back into my pocket and wander down Cain Avenue. The light is fading fast and the yellow streetlamps cast long shadows through the leaves of the oaks that line the quiet street.

I only make it a few hundred yards before the hair on the back of my neck begins to stand on end and I look around uneasily, feeling like someone is watching. The street appears deserted but I catch movement out of the corner of my eye. Turning, I see an old woman rocking in a rocking chair on her front porch. She meets my eyes but doesn’t smile. Instead of walking away like I’m sure she wants, I walk up the cracked sidewalk to her porch.

“Evening,” I call out, as I get closer. She squints at me, frowning, and runs a hand through her frizzy black hair before answering.

“You ain’t from around here.”

“No ma’am, just moved to town.” I smile at her, “My friends and I are looking for a place to live.”

“Don’t know why anyone would want to move here,” she mutters, shaking her head.

I shrug, “It was my fiancé’s idea. He’s been down here a few times before and we were all looking for a change. Nice quiet little town.”

“Well it’s certainly quiet all right. You looking for a house here on Cain?”

“Yes ma’am. Well, anywhere really but my boyfriend and his brother are at Redeem talking to Pastor John right now, so I figured I might as well come take a look.”

The old woman cracks a smile for the first time, “I was born right here on Cain Ave and I’ve been here ever since. Why don’t you come inside, honey? I’ve got some sweet tea in the fridge.”

⃝⃝⃝

My cell phone rings, startling me. When I pull it out to check who’s calling, I realize I’ve been here for over an hour. I flip it open and press the phone to my ear. “Hey Dean.”

“Where are you?”

“Just getting to know the neighborhood, love. I’ll be back at Redeem in a minute.” I click the phone shut and smile apologetically at the old woman. “I guess this is my cue to leave. Thank you so much for telling me about the Reverend Lee and the town. And the sweet tea was delicious, too.”

“Anytime, sweetheart.” She chuckles, “Hope to see you at church on Sunday.”

“Yes ma’am. I never did get your name.”

“Rosie Lee,” she tells me. Of course.

“Kate Burton, it was a pleasure to meet you.”

I walk back down Cain, whistling softly to dispel the uneasy feeling I still have. My footsteps echo a little on the pavement and I walk faster, unable to shake the feeling that I am being watched. When I reach the main street and the parking lot of Redeem, I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Sam is leaning up against the side of the Impala and Dean is bent over some papers laid out on the hood, looking annoyed. They both look up when they hear me.

“Find anything good?” Sam calls out to me.

“Yeah, I met someone who’s lived on the street for her whole life. I’ll tell you about it on the way to a diner or something though, I’m starving.”

The Winchesters both nod, almost in sync, and we climb back into the Impala. Dean stuffs the papers—a map, I realize—into the glovebox and cranks the engine. “Alright, you first,” he says as he turns out onto the street.

“Ever heard the term Bloody Belzoni?” They shake their heads, but I continue anyways. “Well it turns out there was a civil rights activist that lived here back in the ‘50s, George W. Lee. He did a lot of work for the movement and started an NAACP chapter here. He was also a reverend apparently, Baptist. Anyways, back in the early ‘50s he was doing a lot of work for voting rights and of course that rubbed some people the wrong way. He was driving home around midnight on May 7, 1955 when he was assassinated—buckshot to the face. He crashed his car and bled out before anyone could find him and get him to the hospital.”

“And this happened here? On Cain Ave?” Sam frowns.

“No one really remembers exactly where the crash was, but he lived on Cain. The sheriff at the time tried to cover the whole case up. Rosie said it got pretty bad but Lee’s wife had an open-casket funeral for him and it was pretty obvious then that it wasn’t just a car accident. It was quite a big case around here for a while but eventually the buzz died down and they never found out who did it. No witnesses ever came forward and the few suspects they came up with didn’t work. So, it kind of just got forgotten about.” I shrug.

“Well, that sounds like vengeful spirit territory to me,” Dean murmurs as we pull into the parking lot of an old-fashioned diner. “We can do some more research tonight; see if we can figure out where the crash happened, and any reports that came up recently about weird activity.”

None of us bother speaking except to order, until our waitress with our food: Cobb salad for Sam, French onion soup and a house salad for me, and a double bacon cheeseburger for Dean. I learned quickly that trying to convince Dean to eat healthy is a lost cause. Sam pulls out his laptop while Dean and I concentrate on eating. The salad has been sitting for too long—the lettuce is a little wilted and the croutons are soggy—but I’m too hungry too really care and the soup is actually pretty good. Dean is making almost orgasmic noises as he wolfs down his burger.

Sam takes a few bites of his salad and a sip of Coke before he speaks, “Looks like there have been a couple different reports in the last few weeks. All of them seem to be involving vehicles driving on Cain Avenue: couple of cars stalling out in the middle of the road, headlights and windshield wipers turning on or off randomly, nothing too major. The only other report was of a car running off the road last week, the driver swears he was unable to get the car under control, use the breaks, or turn off the ignition. No one was injured but the police report says the car was fairly badly damaged and the driver was pretty freaked.”

“So everything is happening on Cain,” Dean notes through a bite of cheeseburger.

“Seems like it.”

“Is there a cemetery nearby?” I wonder aloud.

“Suttons, 901 Church St. It’s fairly close, but I don’t know if that’s where he would be buried.”

“They might know where else to look though,” I point out and he nods. “Can I borrow the laptop for a minute?”

Sam pushes the computer across the table to me and I type what I’m looking for into the search engine. An instant later, a satellite map of Belzoni, MS pops up on to the screen. I zoom in and click on the street view option. Every street in town has the car-level view, all except for Cain Avenue. Frowning, I zoom in as far as I can go and try to click down the street. I can only see a few hundred yards down it before the image gets blurry and it won’t let me move further.

“Okay, that’s weird. I was hoping we could use the satellite map to see if there were any old graveyards that aren’t in the new map, but just look at this.” I spin the laptop around to show the Winchesters, both frown.

“Yeah, that’s weird,” Dean agrees, after fiddling with the zoom.

“Kinda makes sense though,” Sam mutters, “I mean, we know ghosts can cause electrical disturbances and the like. Maybe it affects this too?

“Yeah, maybe,” I pull the laptop back towards me and continue searching. A few minutes later, I grin. “Well boys, I don’t know if you noticed, but there’s actually a George Lee Street here. We drove right past it on the way into town.”

Dean snaps his fingers as if he’s suddenly remembered something. “Damn, I forgot. Yeah, Pastor John mentioned it. That’s where Reverend Lee and his wife used to live apparently. They changed the name to honor him.”

“And there’s a Baptist church there, too,” Sam adds, “Right, what was the name of it?”

“White Star?” I prompt, “There’s a White Star Baptist Church at 609 George Lee Street.”

“Yep, that’s it!”

“Sorry, but did I hear you say something about White Star?” Our waitress has come back to check on us. Her hazel eyes watch us with interest.

“Yes ma’am, do you know anything about it?” I smile up at the tan, brunette woman. She’s by far the youngest person we’ve met in Belzoni, looking like she’s maybe in her mid-twenties.

“Sure do, my whole family worships there. What are you wanting to know about it?”

“Well, we’re new in town,” Dean explains with an easy smile. I swear she almost faints just looking at him and I can’t exactly blame her. That smile is certainly swoon-worthy. “We’re looking for a church to join and heard White Star might be for us.”

“Oh, well it’s just lovely,” She smiles back at just him, totally ignoring Sam and I. “Pastor Washington is such a nice man and his sermons are so inspiring. It’s a big congregation, but everyone is pretty close.”

“Sounds just like what we’re looking for. Could you give us directions?”

“Sure thing,” she pulls out a pen while she talks, “Head back down the road a ‘ways and take a left onto George Lee St. and it’s just down the road on your left. Big white church with a steeple, not easy to miss it.” She slips Dean the check with another big grin and a bat of her eyelashes.

We finish eating and wait for the flirty waitress to bring back Dean’s credit card. He hands her tip directly to her and gets a wink in return. I glance down and notice her number written with a smiley face at the bottom of the check. I can’t help myself, so I lean over and kiss Dean on the check, my lips brushing the corner of his mouth accidently. I hear his breath catch, but more importantly I see the look of annoyance cross the brunette’s face. I grab Dean’s hand and slide out of our booth, “Come on love, it’s late and we should be going.”

I ignore the bewildered look on Dean’s face and Sam, who is turning red in an attempt to keep from laughing. By the time we step outside the diner, Sam loses it. “Lena, that—“ he stops, overcome with laughter for a moment, “That was so perfect.”

“I thought someone could use a reminder of our actual job here.” I turn to glare at Dean, dropping his hand. It’s only when the contact is broken that I realize my nerves are fizzling with energy.

“Come on, Lena,” he looks annoyed, “It’s not like anything was gonna happen.”

“You keep telling yourself that,” I mutter as we get into the Impala.

The motel we find only has one room—of course—with two beds and no couch. We take it since that’s the only option, but the logistics make it slightly awkward. Either the boys have to share or I’ll end up sleeping in the same bed as one of them. Not that this isn’t generally an exciting prospect under entirely different circumstances, but we’re working a job.

“Alright,” I walk over and toss my bag onto the bed closest to the door, “You guys can choose, but I’m sleeping here.”

Dean puts his gear down beside mine with a grin, “Well you are my fiancé, aren’t you? Can’t have you sharing a bed with my brother.”

I just shake my head at him, digging through my backpack. I find a pair of sweats, a fairly loose sports bra, and a singlet. A bit more searching yields my bag of toiletries. I gather up all the necessities and cross the room to get into a blessedly hot shower. When I emerge a few minutes later, Dean is going through all of our gear, making sure we are ready for anything tomorrow. Sam is bent over his laptop, looking like he is deep in thought.

“Need any help?” I ask, coming to lean over Dean’s shoulder. He’s packing shotgun shells with rock salt at the moment.

“Nah, I’ve got it,” he looks up and his forehead wrinkles in concern. “You should get some sleep, Lena. You look like you need it.”

“I slept the whole drive,” I retort. An instant later, I yawn widely.

“Go to bed Harvelle,” he raises his brows and adds, “That’s an order.”

“Yessir,” I murmur. He’s right, I’m still exhausted. I’m always tired now it seems.

I fall into bed, forgetting my not-quite-healed ribs, and bite my lip to keep from letting out a gasp of pain. Rolling over onto the less-painful side, I pull the covers over myself. Even though I am completely exhausted, I can’t fall asleep. I lay there with my eyes closed, listening to the clicks of Sam’s keyboard and the random but familiar noises of Dean disassembling his pistol to clean it. My thoughts race: thinking of this case and past cases, the excitement of working with the Winchesters for the first time, wondering what Jake would do if he were here—no, definitely not that. Don’t ever think of that. I push the thought away to a deep, dark place in my mind and lock it away. Eventually, my body’s need for sleep overtakes everything else and I drift off, still restless.

⃝⃝⃝

_His eyes snap open in front of me. Jake’s face but not his eyes—these are black, soulless. A force picks me up and throws me against the opposite wall. My head cracks against it and I taste blood. Before I can react, he’s there, pinning me to the wall by my throat. No words can get past his grip and no air either. Black eyes glare into the depths of my soul. I can’t move, can’t breathe. This isn’t quite how it happened, but that doesn’t matter right now. My vision fades out, black on the edges and flashing red in the center. I try to draw a breath and the hand that grips me only tightens. The demon-Jake laughs in my face, “Astaroth sends his regards from Hell.”_

I wake up gasping, surprised to find my throat flooded with air but unable to shake the feeling of being choked. I realize I’m thrashing around in the bed when strong hands grip my shoulders. Dean holds me still, his green eyes wide and worried.

“Easy Lena. Easy, it’s just me,” his voice is low.

I freeze, but my body is still shaking involuntarily. My chest is heaving and ribs feel white-hot with pain. Dean’s grip relaxes but he doesn’t let go of my shoulders. His hands are warm against my clammy skin and I realize he’s straddling me, but the strangeness of this situation hasn’t quite caught up with me yet. He searches my eyes, still looking worried.

“Just a—just a dream,” I whisper, still trying to get my breathing under control.

Dean slides off of me and lets go of my shoulders, looking slightly embarrassed, “Sorry, I was worried you were going to hurt yourself.”

I force a smile for his sake. “Thanks, I think I’m okay.” Total lie.

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not particularly.” That’s the truth at least.

“Alright then.”

He lays back down as I finally manage to calm my breathing down. Neither of us speaks again, but Dean rolls over and wraps an arm around my shoulders. I know I shouldn’t, but I scoot over until I’m pressed against his hip. Dean pulls me back against his chest. Distantly, I realize I should be freaking out about the fact that I’m now basically spooning with Dean Winchester. But at the moment, all I really care about is the warmth and the security in his arms around me. I fall back asleep much easier than I expect to and this time I sleep too deeply to dream.

⃝⃝⃝

I wake to Dean shaking me gently. Blinking sleepily, I sit up with a groan and check the clock. It reads 7:04; they actually let me sleep in for once. And isn’t it sad that at some point sleeping past seven A.M. became “sleeping in.”  I roll out of bed slowly and stand.

“Hurry up and get dressed,” Dean tells me, “I’m starving!”

I roll my eyes at him but grab my clothes out of the backpack beside the bed and walk to the bathroom to change. When I come out a minute later, Dean hands me my gear bag. I murmur thanks and follow him and Sam out the door, since they are clearly anxious to get going this morning.

We grab a quick breakfast at the same diner we went to last night, thankfully with a different waitress. I realize how great it is to be back in the South, as I shovel a mouthful of piping hot grits into my mouth. The strong coffee wakes me up quickly, too. Dean leaves cash on the table as we slide out of the booth and head back to the Impala.

As it turns out, Suttons’ is a total bust—the owner is out of town and the intern there is less than helpful—so we decide to hit White Star next. Pastor Washington is a stout man in his mid-forties with close-cropped, tightly-curled black hair; he wears a black suit jacket over a white button-down and blue jeans. The pastor welcomes us genially to the church, and is more than happy to give us a mini history lesson on the town. When Sam brings up Reverend Lee, Pastor Washington smiles.

“Oh yes, old George Lee.” He sighs and shakes his head, “A good man he was, my daddy grew up just down the street from him. He hung onto that man’s every word.”

“Do you know where he is buried?” I ask. “We would like to visit his grave and pay our respects if possible.” _By burning his bones,_ I add in my head.

“Yes ma’am; there’s a small family graveyard just down the road a ‘ways. It’s not much to see but it’s there.”

“Thank you,” Dean reaches out to shake the pastor’s hand as we take our leave. “Maybe we’ll see you this Sunday.”

“I sure hope so,” the pastor shakes hands with all of us, his grip firm. “Welcome to Belzoni.”

⃝⃝⃝

“Okay, I’ll say it if no one else will,” Sam begins as we get into the Impala. “If the reverend is buried all the way over here, it’s basically impossible for him to be haunting on Cain. Ghosts don’t have that great of a range.”

“Not usually,” Dean agrees, “But it certainly sounds like it’s him. Maybe we’re missing something?”

“There might be something at the accident sight,” I chime in. “I mean, a piece of the car or a trinket or something, who knows?”

“Well, let’s go check it out,” Dean decides, turning out onto the street. “We should salt and burn the bones either way though.”

“Yeah, but we need to wait until tonight for that,” Sam reminds us. “I don’t want to get arrested for desecrating a grave, again.”

“Again?” The boys ignore my question.

Back on Cain Avenue, we park the Impala at Redeem and search the street on foot. I get the feeling that we are being watched again. This place gives me the creeps for some reason, even though I’ve hunted far worse than common ghosts. I keep a hand on the old iron knife that hangs from my belt. Above me, the oak trees dripping Spanish moss half block the sun. I am suddenly thankful for the Winchesters walking only a few feet away from me.

As I search the side of the road for anything that could help us out, my eyes catch the smallest glint of something silver in the grass. Frowning, I bend to pick it up—and am promptly punched in the gut. I curse, falling heavily. Then I look up to see the ghost of Reverend Lee standing over me. Dimly, I hear Sam and Dean shouting. The ghost hits me again, catching my jaw with impressive force for an intangible being. I scramble to my feet as Sam sweeps an iron rod through the ghost, making him vanish for a few moments. Before he can rematerialize, I sweep up the silver. It’s a large cross on a chain. By all rights, someone should have found it a long time ago. It wasn’t hidden or anything.

I hear a shout as the ghost of Reverend Lee materializes beside Sam, knocking him to his knees. A moment later, the ghost sweeps an arm across my not-quite-healed ribs and I cry out in pain. The cross flies out of my hand as I pull my knife, stabbing into the air where the ghost had been an instant before. I look up just in time to shout a warning to Dean, who turns and fires the sawed-off shotgun he’s holding. The sound echoes far too loudly down the street.

I fall to my hands and knees in the grass, scrabbling around until I find the silver cross again. I toss it onto the pavement, ignoring the shouts that start again.  A rush of air makes me duck just in time to avoid another blow from the vengeful ghost. I pull a flask from my pocket and dump the liquid all over the cross. Despite my best efforts, I can’t locate my lighter.

“Dean, I need a light,” I yell. The shotgun bangs again before he tosses me a pack of matches. I swipe at the ghost with my iron knife, causing him to disappear long enough for me to strike the whole matchbook. Sam growls in pain a moment later, but then I drop the matches. The oil I’ve coated the cross in goes up in flame almost instantly. The reverend shrieks, the ghost flames and chars, burning out in moments as the cross melts into the pavement.

“What the hell is that?” Sam pants, coming over to inspect my work.

“Holy oil?” Dean guesses, sniffing the air.

“Yep, a friend taught me that one. It’s good on more than just angels.”

I raise a hand up to my ribs, which ache sharply every time I breathe. Since I’m trying to catch my breath still, that’s fairly often. Dean’s eyes travel to my hand and he frowns.

“Are you okay, Lena?”

“Apparently they weren’t as healed as I thought,” I mutter, forcing a smile, “I’ll be fine, I’ve had much worse.”

“Sammy, you alright?” Sam nods; he looks like he’s had the wind knocked out of him.

“Alright, let’s get the hell out of here before anyone starts asking questions then,” Dean urges.

We quickly head back to the Impala, ignoring the few residents who have come outside to investigate the gunshots. Dean tucks the sawed-off into his jacket. None of us make eye contact and we manage to get back to Redeem without any issue. Dean cranks the engine and we skid out of the lot, back onto the main street. He drives back to the motel where we pack all our gear up and wait for night to fall.

⃝⃝⃝

The Impala bounces down the pothole-studded George Lee Street just after dark. Dean pulls us over on the side of the road and we all grab shovels and flashlights out of the trunk. It takes a few minutes of searching before Sam finds the correct grave. I climb out of the backseat to help, but Dean grabs my arm, forcing me to look up at him.

“We can manage without you for this. Don’t think we didn’t notice how much pain you’re still in.

“I’m fine,” I growl, but I know he’s right.

“You aren’t; is it your ribs?”

“I’m fine,” I repeat, trying not to wince at how uncomfortable talking is.

“Bull.”

“We only have two shovels anyway,” Sam mentions, digging through the trunk.

“See? Just take a break, Lena.”

They walk off before I have a chance to continue the argument, so I lean against the Impala and watch the two of them dig up the reverend’s grave. Objectively, they clearly don’t need my help; the Winchesters have done this hundreds of times. That knowledge doesn’t keep me from being annoyed. Still, they manage to get the coffin dug up and opened much faster than I would have been able to.

Sam pours out a canister of rock salt into the open coffin, while Dean soaks the grave with lighter fluid. A pack of matches is all it takes to set the fire blazing.  We wait, but apparently burning the cross was all it took; the bones burn without incident. The brothers pile all of the dirt back into the grave as the fire burns out, and then pack it down once again. As they walk back, I cross my arms over my chest to glare at them, and immediately regret the action. Wincing, I drop my hands to my tender ribs.

“Okay fine,” I hiss out when they approach, “They still fucking hurt.”

I hear the muffled thuds of the shovels getting thrown back into place. Then there is another, louder thud of the trunk slamming closed before Sam walks over to me.

“You alright?”

“Not really.” I wish I had pain meds, but I’m too stubborn to ask them for any.

“Here,” Dean pushes a cold metal flask into my hand.

The bourbon sears down my throat, but almost immediately starts to take my mind off of the burn in my torso. I take another sip before carefully climbing into the backseat. The spirits spread heat throughout my body and bring a feeling of calmness. I hear the Impala’s engine roar to life as I lean back against the seatback. My eyelids are starting to drift closed.

“You, you drugged me!” My voice slurs out the accusation.

Dean turns back to look at me with a sheepish grin.

“Don’t worry, it’s just oxycodone.”

“You could have at least told me…”

“You’re too proud for your own good sometimes, Lena. You know as well as I do that you would have never asked otherwise.”

“Sam?” I don’t even know what I want to say now.

“Sorry Lena, just stop fighting it and go to sleep. You need it.”

“I hate both of you,” I mumble.

Perhaps I don’t even say it aloud. I slump down onto the seat, letting my eyes close finally. I don’t really remember what I’m mad at them for. Oh well. I drop into a deep sleep before we even reach the Belzoni city limits. The Impala carries us out of Mississippi, back to Kansas, back to home, but I am oblivious.

 


End file.
